


Echolocation

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, CCTV, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Cruelty, Cutting, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Food Issues, Homophobia, Homosexuality, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Original Character(s), Pre-Relationship, Scotland Yard, Self-Harm, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: ECHOLOCATION: A physiological process for locating distant or invisible objects by sound waves reflected back to the emitter from the objects.The man in front of him, dressed in a dark shirt, black jeans, and, surprisingly, a suit jacket, was clearly high as a kite. He was talking a mile a minute even before Lestrade could move directly in front of him, gesticulating wildly.Memories make us who we are.These events take place before and during the ENDPOINT series.





	1. Chapter 1

“I said, you bloody well better leave them alone.”

“Or what? You going to beat us up? Both of us?” The teens in front of him were both taller than him (not that that was much to brag about). They sneered.

“Yeah.” John nodded once, firmly.

“A runt like you? Your sister’s got a better chance of taking us—she’s big enough.” Derek—who was the taller of the two and older by two months and liked to lord it over his mate—snorted.

“She’s butch enough,” Mark, the marginally shorter and younger of the two, was also the quicker-witted. “Or so I hear.”

“You have a real problem with sexuality, don’t you?” John pondered calmly. “It’s interesting. You know, homophobia often covers up latent homosexuality.” He glanced over his shoulder. Jeremy and Tony were long gone; safely escaped. Good. He was beginning to enjoy himself. If things went in the direction he hoped, he didn’t want them involved, even as witnesses. They had enough problems.

Derek glanced at Mark, confused. “Did he just call us poufs?”

“Take that back!” Mark shouted at John. “Piece of shit—you been reading those medical books again. Big mouth in class. Think you’re smarter than us.”

“Yeah, I do,” the short young man agreed. “Not that it’s all that remarkable an achievement.”

“You’re the poufter,” Derek accused, catching up with the conversation. He hated it when Watson did that—it sounded so weird—those big words coming out of that mouth but no posh accent—John Watson was no public-school boy.

John sighed. “I’m not gay, but what if I was? You seem really threatened by it.”

“You got it wrong. We’re the ones threatening you,” Mark commented.

“Oh, I’m terrified.” The sarcasm was almost visible.

“Oh, just shut him up,” Derek snarled.

About bloody time, John thought. As much as he loved a good argument, nothing could beat a good fight. He liked the odds, too.

He supposed that offering suggestions on how to treat their injuries afterwards was a bit obnoxious, even for him, but he just couldn’t resist.

They wouldn’t be bothering him or his friends again.

*

_“I said, why don’t you just walk away before you say something you’ll regret,” John repeated calmly. “I’m not using any terribly difficult words. You should be getting some of this.”_

_Sherlock tried not to smile, but as his flatmate not-so-gently directed the lout who had been abusing a quiet and frightened-looking young man out of the pub, he couldn’t help it._ John Watson really is a remarkable man, _Sherlock thought._ Stop that, _he told himself._ He’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not interested in that way.


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you mean, he didn’t get there?” Mummy huffed.

“I mean he has not been seen anywhere near his college.”

“Well, where is he?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted hesitantly.

“You always know,” she shot back sharply.

Mycroft fidgeted with the handle of his umbrella. “I don’t exactly have him under surveillance,” he offered sulkily.

“Well, maybe you _should_.”

*

“You were a bit hard on him,” Dad pointed out, gently, pouring his wife a glass of wine.

“He gets ahead of himself,” she explained, gratefully accepting it. “He’s not ‘Lock’s parent, but for some reason he thinks he’s better at it than we are. If he’s going to do that, he has to prove to me that he can offer something that we can’t.”

“Do you think he would do that—spy on our sweet boy?”

“If it will keep him safe, I certainly hope so.”

*

_Was he really doing this? Mycroft glanced around himself, confirming that he was unobserved, before hesitantly placing his hands on the keyboard and beginning to manipulate the CCTV camera perched on the corner of a building as close to his little brother’s last known whereabouts as he could manage._

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“How did you find me here?” he demanded, glaring up from his position on the floor, lying on some filthy sofa cushions.

“Your brother sent me in the right direction. Come away from here, Sherlock—it’s vile.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Get the hell out.”

His visitor shook his head and calmly sat down next to him. “Damn. This floor is freezing! Sherlock, you can’t live like this.”

“Clearly I can.”

“You call this living? When was the last time you had a bath?” His nose wrinkled.

“Dunno.”

“Why not? Oh. The water’s shut off, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” the dark-haired man shrugged.

“And the electric?”

A short nod.

“So why not come with me—I’ve got a little place now—come have a bath and warm up and have some proper food?”

“No.”

“And some decent clothing?” he offered.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Oh, come off it, Sherlock! I’m not even sure what colour those socks were originally, or that shirt.”

The thin man glanced down at himself. “Charcoal grey and aubergine,” he replied haughtily.

“This is idiotic, Sherlock.” The other young man rose gracefully and put his hand out. “Do you even have a coat? Anything to pack?”

“My books… damn.” He realised an instant too late that he had just agreed to leave with his—what was he? Former schoolmate? Accompanist?

Ex-boyfriend?

“All right. Let’s get your books and get you out of here.”

He reached up and grasped the hand his friend offered.

Friend.

He was a friend.

*

_The withdrawals had been hell, and Sherlock had never been easy to live with, but he soldiered on, ensuring that his mercurial friend bathed and ate and dressed decently, and then, after a fortnight, they had a long conversation deep into the night and the next day they had tackled the paperwork that would get Sherlock back into school._


	4. Chapter 4

_You know where to find me. SH_

He did. Of course, he did. That was because DI Greg Lestrade always made a point of knowing where “SH” was.

He hadn’t even completely moved in yet, but a few weeks back he had gotten a text from his favourite (only) consulting detective informing him that he would probably be relocating—oh, yes, he definitely would be relocating (there had been an hour between texts) to 221B Baker Street within the next few weeks.

The texts had been sent at three and four o’clock in the morning, respectively.

So, he had phone privileges back. Must be out of rehab. Again.

Was he back at his flat on Montague? Probably. Staying with his brother or his parents had never worked.

Well, he wasn’t going to help the wanker move.

But DI Greg Lestrade was gratified beyond words that Sherlock Holmes had actually made a point of letting him know where he was going.

And that he had a place to go.

Greg had grown tired of delving into the seamier parts of London—they always smelt awful—to track down the maniac. Would he have felt differently if it was only for The Work, as Sherlock expressed it (you could actually _hear_ the capital letters)? He had no way of knowing, because half the time it was for a frustrating case and the other half—

The other half was incoherent rambles on the phone; texts that made absolutely no sense.

The other half was driving or walking through parts of London he was horrified to acknowledge the existence of.

The other half often ended in spending the early morning hours in A & E or in some rancid room in some dilapidated, disgusting building that should have been (might have already been) condemned, holding the head that housed one of the most brilliant brains he had ever encountered as owner of said brain puked his guts out, or raved about oysters and playing cards, or sometimes just went cold and silent and terrifyingly still and Greg was now an expert at taking pulses; at counting respirations.

Greg Lestrade had been a Detective Inspector for a few years now—he had been so proud of achieving that title at a relatively young age—and in his movement up the ranks of the Yard from lowly constable he had had more than his fill of junkies. More than his fill of lunatics. However, unlike many of his colleagues, he found that for the most part he was not disgusted by them. For the most part, the mentally ill ones at least were just that—none of them _wanted_ to be that way; he was positive about that. The junkies? Well, perhaps not so sympathetic, and some of them really did tick him off—he did not include the dealers, who he would have gladly rounded up and dumped into the Thames—but at some level he found himself sympathetic with many of the addicts. Who knew what circumstances in their lives had led to their first hit—or to their most recent?

In the case of Sherlock Holmes (he had honestly not believed that was his real name at first; he thought it was some nickname or street name, like Shezza was), after five years, he still didn’t know the man’s entire story.

Five years. That was a blink of an eye in some ways, and a lifetime in others. He was a Detective Lieutenant back then and already putting in the hours that would get him promoted. That they would also eventually ruin his second marriage and relationship with his children—had he seen the writing on the wall back then?

Greg Lestrade was ashamed to admit it, but yes, he had.

The first time he missed his daughter’s dance programme, he was entirely conscious of the direction he had chosen. The first missed birthday party. The first missed anniversary. He knew what he was doing.

There were just too many responsibilities for one person, he told himself. His wife expected him to support her and the kids, didn’t she? He had to work to do that, didn’t he? And his dad—he was just beginning to lose some words and fumble for names—so he had to take care of him as well, didn’t he? And his supervisor expected great things from him—he had told him so, and didn’t he have to try to live up to that as well?

Wife Number 2, as he thought of her, had recently requested that he remove himself from their flat. Apparently his erratic and infrequent appearances were getting the kids upset. _Fine,_ he thought as he packed up his clothing. _It’ll be easier if I’m on my own._

And so, he was working that night—that first time. The first crime scene. The first appearance of a too-thin, strung-out young man with intense grey eyes, dark hair, and an oddly commanding voice.

The voice was what got his attention first. He had been standing at the DI’s side as he reviewed what they had found at the scene with the forensics team. He was listening intently, hoping to add to the conversation, when something distracted him. He frowned and leaned closer.

No. Damn. There was some fuss at the perimeter of the scene. He glanced over, scowling. A constable was arguing with someone across the yellow tape. He looked at the DI.

“Go see what that’s about, Lestrade,” the older man grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. He stalked over.

Yes, the constable was now pointing her hand firmly down the street. “I said, move along,” she said firmly.

“I’m not leaving until someone… him. I’ll speak with him.”

“I’ll deal with this,” he indicated to the constable, who nodded and moved a few steps away, shaking her head in annoyance. He turned his attention to the interloper.

The man in front of him, dressed in a dark shirt, black jeans, and, surprisingly, a suit jacket, was clearly high as a kite. He was talking a mile a minute even before Lestrade could move directly in front of him, gesticulating wildly. His pupils were wide and dark, and he moved in little jerks.

“… three or four times before having them killed; doesn’t do it himself. Keeps his hands clean. Probably has _them_ killed after a time as well. Dead men make poor witnesses. What he does do himself is scout out the targets—the locations of the burglaries. But how does he do all that without being detected? Can’t just wander around a neighbourhood poking into well-to-do homes, planning to have them burgled, can he? Or can he? Oh! Of course he can! How could I have missed that? There’s always something.”

“Hey,” Greg had finally interjected. “Slow down. What are you on about?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Do keep up. I hate repeating myself,” was the scathing reply. Greg noted his rather odd features—razor-sharp cheekbones, full, pale lips, and the intense eyes were almond-shaped and set wide apart.

“You want me to listen, you start at the beginning and _slow down_ ,” the DL insisted.

“Only if I can see the body,” was the obnoxious and somehow eager response. “I’ll be positive, then.”

“Be positive about what?” Greg surprised himself by reaching out and grasping the yellow tape.

*

“What estate agent were they using?”

“What?” That had come out of nowhere.

“ _Estate agent_ ,” the impatient man hissed. “All the houses that have had burglaries of small, expensive items like those—” he gestured at the bejewelled ring still clenched in the stiffening fingers of the corpse sprawled face-down in front of them— “with which estate agent are they listed?”

Greg thought about it. “None… no, wait. One was. Erm… I can’t remember which one, but it’s in the file.”

“Just one? Are you positive?” The young man looked taken aback. Then his eyes—still blown wide—began to flick back and forth, as if reading some sort of invisible text over the DL’s head. It gave his already odd looks a positively eerie character.

“You all right?”

“Shut up.”

All right. He had had enough of this lunatic’s crap. The DI was expecting him back at the Yard as soon as they bagged up the body. “Oi!” he shouted. “That’s enough.”

He was startled when the eerie eyes suddenly narrowed and focused on him; they were cold and intense and mesmerizing. “How can it possibly be enough when I haven’t identified… oh. Oh!” The eyes were now open wide in amazement. The change in expression was incredible. “Identify… that’s how he scouted out the houses. He’s not an estate agent—he’s doing _valuations_.”

Lestrade nodded to the two men who now approached the body with a gurney and body bag. When he looked back at his odd companion, he was alarmed to see that his expression had changed once again—as had his colour. Even in the oddly-tinted glow of the street lights, Greg could see that he was going not just white but grey. Shit. Bugger was going to…

“Hey! You all right?” he blurted out as he grabbed one alarmingly thin arm. The young man in front of him took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Is it the… don’t look at it if it bothers you,” he instructed, gently turning him away from the sight of the body being lifted into the bag.

“I’s not that,” came the mumbled reply. “Just… tired, I suppose.”

“Okay,” Greg replied gently. He could play along. “If you’re that tired, why don’t I run you home while you tell me about the valuations?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“Not going home.”

Greg blew out an exasperated breath. “Will you at least come sit in my car, then? We can talk there, yeah?” The dark curls moved slightly. Yes, that would be acceptable. He found his helping hand being thrust impatiently away, but he managed to keep close as the thin figure turned rather shakily and began to move directly towards his car.

How had he known which car was his?

“Better?” he asked as the young man let his head fall back onto the headrest. His eyes were shut again. “Last hit wearing off?” he remarked as casually as he could as he got behind the wheel.

“Yes.”

He smiled a bit bitterly. Not even bothering to deny it? He felt smug for an instant; then it occurred to him. “You going to be all right?”

“If you are referring to the possibility of withdrawals, I can assure you that I will deal with whatever…” he paused and swallowed. “Can we just talk about the murders?”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

Greg thought about that conversation often over the next five years. The young man seated next to him (he started his motor and turned on the car’s heat when he began to shiver) had launched into the most amazing description of his theory—how someone was doing valuations on expensive homes as a way of scouting out small, portable valuables, then hiring people to burgle them (he would obviously be taking note of security systems as part of his assessment), then having the burglars killed off after a few jobs, presumably to keep them from talking, exposing themselves or him, or possibly to prevent pilfering some of the stolen goods and keeping it for themselves. The body that had been discovered that night certainly bore part of that theory out—he still had in his possession one of the six priceless rings stolen two days prior. That the object hadn’t been retrieved was likely due to the killer being interrupted.

Yeah, that actually did make sense—but had he gotten that— “deduced” it, as he rather pompously declared—from a few stories in the newspaper, one corpse, and one ring?

Apparently, yes, he had.

If all the homes that had been burgled had already been listed for sale, it would probably have been far too obvious. But a valuation? Some of the homeowners, flustered and distraught by the break-ins, probably had not even thought to mention that they had recently had one done when asked about any strangers in their homes.

Greg was eager to get back to the Yard and review all the files; he would contact the homeowners in the morning to see if… God. What was his name?

“Sherlock,” the thin man sighed. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“How the hell did you know…”

“Obvious…” he stopped speaking and swallowed hard again. His eyes glittered in the dim light.

“Never mind. It’s definitely time to take you home.”

“Slight… problem with that,” the pale young man admitted, sniffing (Greg dug tissues from his glove box and received a nod of thanks).

“Oh?” Why was he not surprised? “Let me guess.”

“Detective Inspectors never guess.”

“I’m not a DI yet,” Greg pointed out. He looked at him carefully. “You just got out of rehab or somewhere,” he declared.

He was gratified to receive a piercing look and then, rather unbelievably considering the circumstances, a small smile. “Correct,” the young man stated with some admiration. “What gave me away?”

“Your clothing. It’s decent—posh stuff, probably expensive—and it’s clean, but it’s a bit thin for the weather. No coat. You probably got checked in a few months ago and that’s all you had with you.”

“Good job. Definitely worthy of Detective Inspector status, in my opinion.”

“Well, thanks, but what good does your opinion… I mean….”

“You mean the opinion of a junkie,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

“Uh… yeah.”

He shrugged. “It’s fine. I don’t care.”

*

“What about your family?” Greg had been trying to get more information out of—what had he said his name was? Sherlock? Really?

“What about them?” So, he did have family. He had thought so. The clothing; the public school accent. Had probably been to university.

“Can’t you stay with them?”

“No.”

“No as in you’re not welcome?”

“No as in they don’t know I’m out of rehab.”

“What?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Look… who are we talking about? Parents?”

“I have parents.”

So, he was going to make him fish? Fine. “What about siblings? Aunts? Uncles? Anyone else?”

“I have an older brother who is currently not my problem, nor am I his.” The shrug of careless disregard was rather theatrical.

“So why haven’t you told your parents that you’re out of rehab?”

“I should think that that is fairly obvious.” The smile was small and sad.

“You never had any intention of staying clean,” the policeman commented. “How’d you convince the doctors to let you go?”

“It’s very easy to say the right things,” he sighed. He shifted slightly, hunching over a bit, and his expression changed to pensive and vulnerable and contrite in an alarmingly convincing way. “I feel so bad; what I’ve put my parents through. I really couldn’t see it—it was all about the next hit; the next high. Now the thought of doing anything like that…” he let his voice drop down as he shuddered in mock horror and revulsion.

Then he shifted again, letting his head fall back onto the headrest, and the world-weary, somewhat amused, somewhat bored expression returned. “See?”

“You’re an idiot,” Greg snarled at him. “All you’re doing is hurting yourself and your parents more.”

“I don’t wish to speak about it any longer. If you don’t need me anymore—you should be able to identify the estate agent who’s been doing those valuations fairly easily with everything I’ve given you—I…” He paused. “There are places I can stay…” He scowled. “There are some people I need to contact.”

“Do you need a phone?”

He shook his head. “They’re not exactly on the grid, Inspector Lieutenant. I have to go look for them.”

He seemed so suddenly (and even with their brief acquaintance Greg realised it was uncharacteristically as well) unsure of himself that it made the older man uneasy. He shook his head. “No. What you need to do is get something to eat, find a place to sleep, and get a warmer coat.”

“Not hungry. Not tired.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open! And when you crash, you’re going to want to be somewhere warm and clean and dry, with lots of painkillers—am I right?”

He attempted to make an exasperated noise, but he coughed instead.

“All right. That settles it. Buckle up.”

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, sitting up in alarm. “I’m not going back to that place and I’m not going to a police station or A & E and I’m not being tested and I just won’t tell you who my parents are so you can’t contact them.” He reached for the door handle.

Greg watched as he pushed the door open and unfolded himself from the car—and promptly passed out cold. It was rather horrifying to watch; as the DL fumbled with his own door he just went straight down. “Shit, Sherlock!” he shouted as he dashed around the front of the car and threw himself onto his knees next to the younger man. He was alarmingly pale and out cold. “Hey,” he muttered as he patted one gaunt cheek. “Come on. Come back to me.”

It took a few seconds, but then there was a slight fluttering of eyelids and a grunt; the unnerving eyes opened a bit. He licked his dry lips. “Just need some air,” he mumbled.

“Can you get back into the car?”

The young man’s eyes had shut again. “Where are you taking me, then?” he mumbled.

“Home—with me.”

The eyes opened wide at this. “With you?”

“Yeah. Come on. Up.” He was so slight Greg could probably have picked him up, but instead he carefully got him sitting up and slowly moved him back into the passenger seat of his car.

*

_Greg watched thoughtfully as John Watson, the newly-engaged-to-a-woman guest of honour, leaned on the table in front of the rather-unbelievably-pissed Sherlock Holmes and said something to him. Sherlock, who had been leaning his head in his hands, looked up blearily. John reached out and, smiling affectionately, ran his fingers through the dishevelled curls. A short conversation between the two and John was helping the thin man get to his feet. He was decidedly wobbly and it took John a minute to get him into his long, dark coat._

_They headed out, walking slowly, John’s hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, gently directing and steadying him._

_“You’re not taking him home?” one of the lads asked, watching their rather wandering progress._

_“John said he didn’t mind,” Greg shrugged. What he didn’t mention was that John—newly-engaged-to-a-woman John Watson, which had surprised the fuck out of pretty much everyone who knew the pair—had actually said “I don’t mind. I_ like _taking him home.”_

_“He’s gonna be sick in the cab,” the other man observed conversationally before turning back to the dart match._

_“Yeah. Probably,” Greg agreed, finishing his beer._

It happened that first time I had you in my car, you wanker, _Greg Lestrade thought._ Do you even remember that?


	5. Chapter 5

“What are you doing?” Sherlock was finding it difficult to form words. God, whatever Victor had given him was lovely. His brain was barely controlling his autonomic functions, let alone racing out of control the way it usually did.

“Just a little something I’ve been wanting to try. You game?”

“Mmm. Shure.”

He didn’t object—didn’t actually react at all—when Victor wrapped one large hand around his thin wrist and pulled it down by his side. Then there was something tickling him—it brushed against his bare stomach and he squirmed a bit.

And then there was something other than Victor’s hand around his wrist.

Fabric. It was something fabric—fairly smooth.

Interesting.

He felt the edge of the mattress—the side where the fabric was—being lifted up, and then Victor was rummaging about.

Odd.

The mattress was dropped back into place and he felt his arm being pulled. He tried to raise it and found that he couldn’t.

“Wha’re you doing?” he asked muzzily, trying to focus on Victor’s face.

“Just a little game. You’ll like it.”

The same action was performed with his other wrist, and now he was getting very curious. He lifted his head and tried focusing on his hand. He raised it, but after moving it only a few inches, its progress was halted by…

What?

What the hell was that?

And now what was Victor doing to his ankle? Same sensation: fabric and a lifting of the mattress and then an inability to move his leg.

Victor was tying him to the bed.

Shit.

He tried to object. He tried to say something. He tried to pull his legs away from the burly man, but whatever he had taken had made him horribly uncoordinated. His reflexes didn’t seem to be working quite right. He felt a touch on his one free ankle now, but by the time he attempted to kick with it, or pull away, or anything, it was too late.

He peered down at himself. He was naked and tied to Victor’s bed with…

Ties. Victor’s hideous, cheap ties. Why did they all have stripes?

Despite the fog that was currently creeping over his thought processes, he automatically began to analyse the situation. He pulled up with both arms. He couldn’t move them away from his sides. They were secured to the metal frame that ran under the thin mattress. The tie on his right wrist was particularly tight; his hand was already going numb.

He raised his head and looked down at his legs. They were slightly spread, and each ankle was tied to a corner of the bed frame. It was (fortunately) a narrow bed, so his legs weren’t uncomfortably far apart, but he had absolutely no range of motion. He couldn’t even get his heels off the mattress.

Where had Victor gone?

Ah. There he was, coming out of the en suite. He smiled at Sherlock—a horrible, predatory smile. Sherlock began to feel a bit ill.

There was a knock at the door.

“Coming!” he called out, never taking his eyes off the body of the pale naked man helpless on his bed. He grabbed the cheap duvet from where it had fallen onto the floor and, with an abrupt motion, covered him from the chest down, being careful to ensure that the bed frame and ties were obscured.

Sherlock tried to make eye contact with him, but he had already turned away and was opening the door to his tiny student hall room. Two other students walked in. One—his name was Paul, Sherlock vaguely recalled—was carrying a large amount of bottled beer. The other, a rather delicate brunette named Simon, had some packets of crisps and other staples of student diets. The beer was deposited on the small table next to the bed.

“Christ, Holmes. Move over,” Paul said. Sherlock looked at Victor in panic.

“Nah. Don’t make him move. He’s stoned off his arse. Idiot always overestimates what he can handle.”

Paul snorted. “I hear he’s a lightweight when it comes to drinks, too.”

“I hear he doesn’t eat,” Simon interjected.

Where they really discussing him as if he weren’t there? He tried protesting, but somehow after he managed to open his mouth, he found himself unable to form words. Was it because he didn’t have control over his lips and tongue? Or was it because he didn’t have control over the words themselves? He wasn’t entirely sure.

“Leave him alone. Grab a chair.” Victor indicated a small stack of folding chairs leaning up against a wall. They looked suspiciously like they had been liberated from… well, the local funeral director was likely not pleased. They were erected around the tiny table. Victor produced a pack of cards, each grabbed a bottle of beer, and they began to play.

Two hours.

Two fucking hours.

Whatever Victor had given him had worn off. His arms and legs ached. His neck and chest were cold. The sound of the flipping cards was beginning to drive him mad, and he wanted a cigarette. And he was now aware of a _need_ —one that was becoming more insistent with every passing moment.

“Victor,” he called out. The name caught in his throat and was obscured by a sudden burst of raucous laughter from the group. “Victor,” he tried again, a bit more loudly.

For it had just occurred to him—if their little “game” was revealed, who would be the more humiliated? There was no denying that he had been pretty out of it when the others had arrived. They knew that Victor tended to control what he took—often dosing him too heavily or withholding, depending on his mood and Sherlock’s need; it wouldn’t be the first time he had given him too much. So, if his naked body, tied with what were undeniably Victor’s own ties, was revealed—and it would only take a twitch of the duvet—would they think for one moment that he had voluntarily gotten himself into that situation?

Well, they might. No one really knew him that well; they might figure that along with his food issues and intense but erratic academic performance and his weird “trick” of revealing everyone’s secrets, he very well might have a predilection for bondage.

Did Sherlock care about that? He had had plenty of time to consider it, and he had come to several conclusions about himself:

1) Sherlock did not care, in the slightest, if anyone thought that he was into kinky sex acts. Most people assumed that he wasn’t into sex acts of any kind, to be honest, and that was fine with him. That he was a homosexual—well, no one really cared.

2) He did not care about what they thought about him using. He wasn’t ashamed of it at all—even when he or Victor miscalculated and he ended up violently ill or doing something spectacularly idiotic.

3) He _did_ care about others seeing him completely naked like that. Not the naked part—he certainly had nothing to be ashamed about in the usual sense. It was what they might say about the cuts. It wasn’t that he was particularly ashamed of that, either. It was more the bother of it all. They would see them, and _ask_ about them, and want him to _explain_ , and then they’d want to _talk_ about it. That was the bit that would be awful—all the _bother_.

4) But what _did_ make Sherlock squirm, pulling subtly on his ligatures, was this: He had been stupid enough to let Victor overpower him. He had been stoned enough that he wasn’t even aware of what was happening, and he had just let it happen. He was not in control of the situation.

That was unbearable.

So where did that leave him?

It left him tied to an uncomfortable, narrow bed in a filthy room occupied by three loud, drunk students, not quite completely covered by a hideous, rough, cheap duvet that smelled strongly of the last time he and Victor had been together—a pungent mixture of body odour, cigarettes, and semen.

And he needed to use the loo.

So, what would happen if he suddenly demanded that Victor untie him or he’d piss the bed?

Not what _he_ would do—he wasn’t interested in that bit. He was curious about what _Victor_ would do—because in his musings it had occurred to him that if his “situation” was revealed, what would Victor be able to say? He clearly couldn’t have tied both of his hands by himself. Once tied, he couldn’t have arranged the duvet. It would be instantly apparent that Victor himself had done it—and what would that say about _him _?__

__It would (hopefully) say that Victor was an abusive, sadistic homosexual with a predilection for bondage._ _

__Could be interesting._ _

__He was about to raise his voice again when Victor glanced over at him, then at the empty bottles that had been thrown to the floor. “Damn,” he commented. “We’re already out of beer.”_ _

__“What? Really? Shit, Simon. You’ve been putting them away,” Paul growled._ _

__“No faster than either of you,” Simon defended himself._ _

__“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I’m not sipping on tea the rest of the evening. Either you two go out and get more, or we all go out.”_ _

__“It’s too expensive to go out drinking,” Paul protested. “Simon, go get some more.”_ _

__“I’m not going by myself.”_ _

__“Oh, all right, baby,” Paul sneered. “We’ll both go… after I take a piss.”_ _

__He didn’t bother closing the bathroom door and the sound made Sherlock positively twitch. To his immense relief (that would be funny if he wasn’t so uncomfortable) the two headed out quickly, Simon nodding in agreement to Victor’s request for Twiglets and more crisps._ _

__As soon as he shut the door, Victor locked it and was back next to the bed in an instant. His eyes gleamed oddly—he was very drunk, Sherlock realised. Damn. That could be a problem. It depended on what mood he was in. Victor jerked off the duvet, throwing it violently to the floor, and stared down at Sherlock’s exposed body._ _

__“What’s the matter?” he demanded tauntingly. “Not enjoying your little rest?”_ _

__“Untie me and let me up now,” Sherlock demanded._ _

__“Why should I?” He fingered the tie closest to him._ _

__“Because if you don’t, I’m going to piss all over your disgusting mattress.”_ _

__Victor’s face fell. “You wouldn’t.”_ _

__“If you wait any longer, I don’t think I’m going to have a choice.” He was not speaking idly._ _

__“Shit. All right.” Victor, despite the amount of alcohol he had consumed, quickly undid all four ties. Sherlock found his breath quickening in anticipation. Freed, he tried to lunge off the bed._ _

__Instead, he rolled off and collapsed on the floor, his arms and legs completely numb and useless. He was helpless._ _

__He didn’t like to remember what had happened after that; he did, though, and at first it was quite often—replaying the entire scene in his head night after night. For months._ _

__Unable to move, he lay on his side on the filthy floor. His arms and legs started positively shrieking in agony as circulation began to be restored. And he couldn’t help it. He really, truly could not control himself. He pissed the floor._ _

__He stared at Victor’s trainers, two inches in front of his face, and nearly moaned in relief while the large man cursed and stepped back. The relief of his empty bladder lasted only a second, though._ _

__Victor kicked him in the stomach._ _

__*_ _

__How he had managed to dress himself with still-numb fingers, yanking pants and jeans up over wet legs, was beyond him. He just knew that he had to get out of that room before the huge man looming over him did anything else to him. He dragged his jumper over his bare chest, not caring about the shirt that had been underneath. He couldn’t manage socks, let alone shoes, so he simply left them, grabbing his bag of books and coat and stumbling out of the room barefoot._ _

__He leaned heavily against the wall, gasping in pain as his arms and legs continued to throb, but he finally took a deep breath, pushed off the wall, stood up straight, and walked as casually as he could out of the building and into the comforting shadows._ _

__*_ _

__“What happened in here?” Paul demanded, wrinkling his nose and indicating the poorly-wiped puddle. The soaked shirt that had been used for the task had been dumped into the bathroom sink, unrinsed._ _

__“Fucking Holmes fucking pissed himself and left me with the mess,” Victor growled, grabbing a beer before the other man could even put them down._ _

__“Wanker—why do you even waste your time with him?” Paul snickered._ _

__“I don’t—not anymore. Dickhead can get his ‘goodies’ from someone else from now on.”_ _

__Simon quietly removed his coat, glancing around the small room. He noted the shoes—undeniably Sherlock’s from the looks of them—near the door. The now-empty bed was still covered with the ratty duvet—but what was that hanging down, peeking out from under it?_ _

Was that a tie?  
  
*  
  
_“Hey, Sherlock. You all right?” John reached out and put a comforting hand on Sherlock’s back, steadying him._  
  
 _“What? Oh… yes. Fine.”_  
  
 _He continued examining the ties on display, trying to find one that would complement John’s warm, dark eyes._  
  
 _It couldn’t have stripes._  
  
  
  



End file.
